


Flu Season

by Arsenic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:37:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Derek knows that humans get sick and then get better, he does.  It's just very unnerving when it isStilesgetting sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goss/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta, sailorstkwrning!

It's become a clichéd statement, even within his own mind, but: Stiles runs with wolves. Literally, given that Derek is a full-shift were. Stiles has survived demon possession and manipulative chimeras and douchelizards. There is no way a cold is keeping him from his Crim Pro final. He has studied easily a cumulative forty hours for it, and if he misses, he has to take an incomplete for the semester, which will totally fuck him in terms of summer internships.

He's taking this test, cold be damned. 

He's not a complete idiot. He packs himself two bottles of water, two travel size tissue packs, throat lozenges, aspirin, and pseudoephedrine. He makes himself some tea, squeezes some lemon into it, pours it into a thermos, and trudges off to the testing site.

It's a two hour final. Afterward, he can come back, curl up in bed and whine at Derek about how gross he feels. Derek's always hilarious when Stiles gets sick. He has vague enough memories of it happening to the humans in his family that he combines a million different approaches and mostly ends up being completely unhelpful, but too adorable for Stiles to mock.

Stiles shoulders his backpack of supplies—cold and final related—and heads toward campus. Two hours. He's got this.

*

Stiles turns in the final with shaking hands. The paper's wet from how badly he's sweating, and that's gross, seriously. He grimaces and opens his mouth to apologize, but his teeth are chattering too hard to make speaking easy and he gives up, going to collect his things.

He's really dizzy by the time he makes it out of the testing hall and back onto the quad. His bus stop isn't far, he just—maybe he just needs to sit for a second. His descent to the ground isn't exactly graceful. Stiles has accepted that fluid motion isn't his forte, but he's gotten better. And even at his worst, he doesn't generally crumble.

A couple of other students nearby ask him if he's okay. He nods his head and says, "Yeah, yeah, just. Should've eaten before that final."

One of them gives him a granola bar, and they apologize before running off, explaining that they're on their way to a final. Stiles says, "Thanks, really."

He should call Derek and let him know Stiles might be a little late getting home. Derek worries, and as much as Stiles likes to tease him about it, it's obviously logical, given Derek's past and their lives in general. 

Stiles decides he's just gonna rest his head on his backpack for a moment and gather some strength. Then he'll call.

*

Derek knows Stiles isn't in the apartment from outside the building. Stiles is _always_ making some type of noise, he even mutters in his sleep. So if Derek can't hear him, he's not there. That's odd, because Stiles is pretty good about telling Derek if he's going to go out or do something after classes.

Derek lets himself into the building and checks his phone again, but there's nothing from Stiles. He frowns and tries to remember that he's paranoid on a good day. Stiles is good about handling it—which is why Derek regularly gets texts from him if anything changes—and better about making Derek feel like it's not crazy, but a pretty reasonable reaction to, well, their lives. Still, he's paranoid.

But when he walks into the apartment and Stiles' lingering scent is _wrong_ , he's done pretending to be calm about the situation. He hits speed dial three and waits for the Sheriff to say, "Hey Derek."

"Sir," Derek says, because as many times as the man has tried to get him to call him Noah, or, at the very least, Stilinski, Derek just isn't there yet, "I, uh. Have you heard from Stiles?"

"Not since we talked last night. What's going on?"

"He's not at the apartment, even though his test should have been over hours ago, and he hasn't texted me, and he—I think he might be sick. His scent is….sour." That's not precisely accurate, but explaining shifts in scents is nearly impossible, Derek has learned over the years. 

"Lemme just—" 

Derek listens as the Sheriff taps at the keys of his computer. There's a ding and the other man says, "The GPS locator on his phone has him on the main campus. It's possible he got caught up with something. Want me to call?"

Derek says, "No, thanks, I'll do it. And if he doesn't pick up I'll drive over there and see what's going on. Thanks for, uh—" _Not acting like I was crazy._ "Thanks."

"Thanks for keeping an eye on him," the Sheriff says. "Give me a call or a text when you've gotten hold of him?"

"First thing," Derek promises. He hangs up and hits memory one. He's already on his way to the car when Stiles hasn't picked up on the third ring.

*

Finding Stiles on campus isn’t hard. Even if Derek hadn't known how to filter out ambient noises and smells and track his prey since he was a kid, with Stiles, it's long been nearly reflexive to latch onto his voice, the chemical burn of the Aderall in his system, the slight overlay of a very particular brand of French milled soap that Derek had found it weird Stiles was so obsessed about ordering and using until he'd learned it was what Stiles's mom had used. Knowing Stiles's vicinity makes it the work of three minutes to find him, curled in a patch of grass around his backpack, twitching and muttering in his sleep. Derek texts the Sheriff, "found him," as he keeps moving toward Stiles.

Derek cognitively understands that he's smelling the heat coming off of Stiles, the viral struggle taking place, but it feels like actually, well, feeling it. He puts his hands on Stiles and says, "Fuck."

Stiles lashes out. His dreams aren't exactly always tranquil even without the help of illness and fever, so Derek's ready for it, doing his best to hold Stiles off while not hurting him. He says, "Stiles," low and firm, repeating it until Stiles' eyes finally open. Even then, there's several long seconds where it's pretty clear Stiles isn't actually seeing him. 

Derek says, "You're safe, I promise," and that allows Stiles to take a breath, for his eyes to focus, some lucidity seeping back in.

His head lolls to the side and he frowns. "'m I—why'm I on the quad?"

"You fell asleep," Derek says, keeping things simple. "Can I take you home?"

Stiles' fingers curl into the henley Derek's wearing, and for a second, Stiles's expression is wide open in a way it never is anymore, hasn't been for years. Derek's breath catches, his chest hurting. He forces out, "Lemme take you home, Stiles."

"Want my dad, Der."

"Okay," Derek says, because if he has to, he will drive Stiles down to Beacon Hills, pumped to the gills with medications. "Okay. But first, let's go home and get you more comfortable."

Stiles is running hotter than Derek, and Derek, like most werewolves, runs at a pretty consistent 101.5. Derek has a whole Pinterest board on how to take care of sick humans—he doesn't call it that, he calls it 'home remedies'—and he's got Melissa and the Sheriff on speed dial. He can get Stiles stabilized and then get him to his dad.

Stiles lets his head drop forward against Derek's chest. "'Kay."

"Okay," Derek says again. He slings Stiles's backpack over his shoulder and does his best to get Stiles in a standing position. He gives up after the third try and just picks him up. It's more than a little terrifying that Stiles is too out of it to protest the bridal hold. 

He buckles Stiles into the passenger seat of the Toyota—there's a ticket on the dash and Derek really cannot be fucked to care—and drives like Laura taught him to (a public menace) to get Stiles back to the apartment. Stiles falls asleep during the five minute trip and wakes enough to say, "Der," when Derek's pulling him out of the car.

Derek skips the elevator, which is old and slow, and bounds up the four floors to their apartment, really hoping nobody catches him in the stairwell, since that's going to be hard to explain. Stiles might be wiry, but he's a guy in his twenties. He's not a lightweight.

Luck is with Derek, or perhaps it's just the fact that he gets off work earlier than most people. Either way, he makes it to the apartment without running into anyone. He sets Stiles on the couch and pulls up his Pinterest account on his phone. Stiles isn't vomiting, which probably rules out the stomach flu. He is sniffling and wheezing which…could be a lot of things, evidently.

But first thing's first: getting the fever down is always the most important. Derek can remember that from when his cousins—Just. Derek remembers that.

*

Stiles fights like a fucking feral cat when Derek puts him in the tub with about a foot of lukewarm water. He screams about nogitsunes and ghost riders and, worst, _his mom_ , and thrashes until well past when they're both soaking.

Then, suddenly, his mouth opens, as if to scream some more, and it's like something clicks. He blinks several times. "Der?"

"You've got a fever," Derek says softly. "I need you to stay in the tub."

Stiles blinks a few more times at that. "C-cold."

"I know, I know you feel that way. That's the fever. We've got to get it down. I'm gonna call Melissa, okay?"

Stiles shakes his head. "She'll—she'll—"

"Tell your dad, I know. We're gonna call him next."

"No, no, no, nooo." Stiles is getting a little frantic again, so Derek presses their foreheads together, his hand clasping the whole of the back of Stiles's neck. 

"Hey," Derek says. "Hey. You're okay. And we're gonna tell your dad you're fine. But I need to make sure that isn't a lie."

Derek's heartbeat is out of control. He's learned to be good in a crisis, to be the eye of the storm. The problem is that Stiles is the guy whose plan Derek is always following to get past the damn storm. And Derek knows, rationally, that humans get sick and get better, they do.

They also get sick and don't get better. And Derek can't lose Stiles. He—he can't.

Stiles is shivering, but Derek can still feel the heat coming off of him, practically taste it. Derek says, "You gotta let me do this, Stiles."

Stiles swallows. "Just…just don't go anywhere. I need—I need to know where I am."

Not that Derek's really been making that happen all that much, but Derek nods. "No. Not going anywhere. Got my phone right here."

*

Melissa answers, "Uh, Derek?"

Fair enough. Derek doesn't remember the last time he called Melissa. "Hi Melissa. Sorry to bother you, but Stiles is—Stiles has a fever."

"How high?" she asks.

"Uh." It's then that Derek remembers that thermometers are a thing. "I don't think we have a thermometer. He was hotter than me. I put him in a bath."

"And he's cooling down?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Do you guys keep Tylenol around, by any chance?" 

"Yeah."

"Get a couple in him, have him drink some water. What are his other symptoms?"

Stiles speaks up. "Head hurts. Everything hurts, actually. Aches. Tired. Sore throat. Congestion."

"Sounds like a good old fashioned flu, kiddo. I don't suppose you keep a can of soup anywhere?"

Derek may or may not keep a couple of the boxes of organic chicken soup from Trader Joes in their pantry for just this type of emergency. There's no proof one way or the other, and he's not talking. "Yeah, I'll go heat it up."

"Try to eat, Stiles. Take the Tylenol, drink a full glass of water and sleep as much as you can. If it lasts longer than a couple of days, or if the fever goes back up to hotter than you, Derek, get him to an urgent care clinic."

"Thanks, Mel," Stiles rasps.

"Feel better, sweetie."

"Thanks," Derek says softly.

"Call me in a few," she tells him.

Derek helps Stiles stand and get out of the tub. He's still shivering, but this time it seems to be less from elevated temperatures and more because of the cooling water. Derek wraps him in every towel he can find. Stiles peers out from his cocoon of towels and says, "I think I'm dry, dude."

Derek, who cares nothing for Stiles's opinion so long as Stiles is committing the high crime of being ill, ushers Stiles into the bedroom and dresses him in sweats before getting him seated at their table. He pulls the soup out of the cabinet and sets his phone down in front of Stiles. "Call your dad."

"Mm." Stiles lays his head down on the table, and does as told.

*

Derek will damn well do airplane noises if it will get Stiles to eat the soup. (He had baby cousins, he knows how this works.) Thankfully, it doesn't come to that, as Stiles takes one look at his face and seems to realize the threat. Or maybe just that Derek is freaking the everloving fuck out. Either way.

Stiles's hand shakes for the last few spoonfuls and when he's done, he says quietly, "Tired, Der."

Derek herds him toward the bedroom and gets him tucked in. He kisses his forehead, because his aunt used to do that when his human cousins would get sick, and says, "I'm gonna go clean up. You sleep."

Derek only gets the bowl in the dishwasher before the nightmare hits.

*

Derek shifts and settles himself atop Stiles. It will accomplish two things: 1) Stiles won't be able to flail and possibly hurt himself, and 2) the heat and weight of Derek's wolf form almost always calm Stiles, sleeping or awake.

It takes longer than Derek would prefer for Stiles' attempts at tossing, his shouts and whimpers, to subside. When they do, he's shivering again, his fever having roared back to life. Derek shifts back and goes to get cool towels and ice packs. He wraps the latter in dry towels and places one at the back of Stiles's neck and one under his knees, the way one of the pinned websites tells him to. He lays a cloth over Stiles's forehead and stomach, mostly because that seems to be where most of the heat is radiating from.

Derek tries to convince himself to go into the other room and do some straightening, throw a load of laundry in the machine. In the end, he admits that he's not going anywhere until Stiles is well enough that Derek's sure he'd make it to the bathroom by himself. He goes to the other side of the bed and lays atop the covers, listening to the rasping of Stiles's breath, the unusual rattle of his lungs.

He says, "You're going to be fine."

He thinks he needs to hear it as much as Stiles. Maybe more.

*

Stiles wraps himself around Derek, shivering from the remnants of the fever and the aftereffects of the ice. Derek cuddles him close, rubbing his lower back and murmuring about how they're going to have a quiet holiday season, just them and dad, and the rest of the pack.

Around eleven, Stiles' temperature starts rising again. Derek tries to wake him, tries to get him to take water. When neither works, he wrestles Stiles into his arms, and puts him back into the tub. Stiles yells at him, fights like Derek is trying to kill him, and Derek keeps talking, keeps trying to get through. Eventually, he turns on the shower, hoping that the shock doesn't harm him.

Stiles goes stock still, and stops breathing. Derek says, "Stiles, c'mon, Stiles, breathe."

Predictably, Stiles does not breathe. Derek drags him out of the tub and wraps him tightly in towels, holding him close and constricted. Sometimes making it hard to breathe forces him to fight for it, and breaks the pattern. He almost cries when it finally works, and Stiles gasps out a breath. Stiles keens for a little bit and asks, "Der?"

"Here, I'm here."

"I don't feel good."

"Yeah," Derek says, forcing himself to stay calm, because Stiles basically never admits that he's actually feeling less than fine. "Yeah, we're gonna go to urgent care."

He expects Stiles to argue, but instead he just clings to Derek and shivers. Derek says, "Okay, let's get you in some sweats."

It's not easy. Stiles isn't terribly coordinated, and he's unwilling to let go of Derek. He keeps saying, "Sorry, sorry, I'm just. Sorry."

Derek keeps trying to shush him, but he's not sure Stiles really even hears him. He carries Stiles to the car and buckles him in, trying to keep contact as much as possible while running to the other side. Stiles grabs on once Derek's in the driver's seat. Derek says, "I got you," and speeds all the way to the clinic.

*

There's only one 24-hour urgent care clinic in town, and Derek's pretty sure that's only because it's a college town. It's a good half an hour from the apartment. Derek forces himself to talk the entire time, since when he stops, Stiles becomes antsy and apologetic. Derek pulls him out of the car when they arrive, but Stiles insists on walking, leaning almost all his weight against Derek.

Thankfully, the clinic is quiet. Most of the students have gone home, which probably helps. They're shuffled into the exam room and given paperwork to fill out. Derek lays Stiles down on the exam table, takes his wallet, and works his way through the questions. It's the first time he's ever had to do this, and he's glad he made Stiles's dad teach him how before the two of them had moved in together, glad he'd said, "I need to know…the day-to-day things humans know," and let the man determine the limits and lengths of that.

The doctor who walks in is young. She holds out her hand, "I'm Dr. Guled." She looks at the bed. "This is Stiles?"

"Yeah, hi," Derek shakes her hand. "He's a little out of it."

"Par for the course," she says. "Stiles," she says loudly.

Stiles blinks and looks over at her. He looks at Derek. "Um."

"She's a doctor," Derek tells him. "Answer her questions."

If Stiles were feeling less crappy, he'd probably argue, or at least give Derek shit for being demanding about it. Derek hates that instead, he just nods and says, "Hey doc."

She's good about telling Stiles when she's going to touch him, good at rolling with his not-always-entirely-linear way of answering her questions. Derek closes his hand around one of Stiles's knees and listens on and off to Stiles's too-quick heartbeat and his answers.

The doctor lets Stiles sleep when she's done talking with him and tells Derek, "It's not bad that you brought him in, a sustained fever like that can be terrifying, but as far as I can tell, he really is just fighting off a virus. I'm going to give him IV fluids and Tylenol while he's here, since you said you were having trouble getting him to take those orally, start him on a dose of anti-virals just for good measure, but after that you should be good to take him home. If the fever persists after another forty-eight hours, or if it goes over one hundred and three, bring him back, but otherwise, he should be fine."

Derek nods. "Thank you. I'm sorry—I was trying not to be an alarmist, but neither of us gets sick very often."

She shrugs. "Better safe than sorry. And the IVs really will help, so it probably was for the best anyway. In any case, it's been pretty boring around here this evening, so thanks for the hour or so of adventure."

Derek digs up a smile for her, and she turns to go get the supplies. Stiles curls toward where Derek is standing, and Derek moves closer to allow him access. Stiles mumbles, "She's cool, can we keep her?"

Derek huffs a startled laugh. "Only if you wanna be the one to explain werewolf packs to her."

Stiles makes a disgruntled noise. "Maybe later."

*

The IVs take about an hour and a half, but by the time they head out, Stiles is lucid and able to stumble out to the car with only a little help. He falls asleep on the ride back to the apartment and doesn't stir when Derek carries him inside and puts him to bed. The doctor said she put a mild sedative in with the fluids and meds, though, so that isn't terribly surprising.

Derek texts both Melissa and the Sheriff to give them an update. He puts a glass of water by the bed and then shifts and curls up next to Stiles. His instincts are more highly attuned when in wolf form, so if anything happens, he'll wake immediately.

It only takes a few seconds of listening to the now-normal beat of Stiles's heart—well, normal for when he's sleeping—to send Derek into an exhausted sleep.

*

Stiles sleeps for eleven hours with only a couple of quick interludes of waking for a glass of water, the bathroom, and more Tylenol. When he finally wakes, he's still running a low grade fever, but he knows where he is and even says, "I'm hungry. We have more of that soup?"

Derek heats up another pot of it. Stiles eats it, and drinks both glasses of water Derek sets in front of him, and asks, "Can we go home now?"

Derek can still smell the sickness on Stiles, but it's considerably less overwhelming than it had been. He says, "Call Melissa. If she says you're approved for road travel, we'll leave in a bit."

Stiles nods in agreement, but then seems to forget what he's agreeing to, instead shuffling to the couch and faceplanting. Derek's not even certain he's awake when he makes physical contact.

Derek cleans the dishes and calls Melissa himself, giving her the facts and asking if they're cleared for travel. She says, "Yeah, he can sleep in the car. Just take a lot of water and expect to have more bathroom breaks than usual."

Derek says, "Thanks," and goes to pack for both of them. Stiles hasn't so much as twitched from where he fell onto the couch. Derek considers his options and in the end, runs his fingers through Stiles's hair and says, "Stiles," softly.

Stiles mumbles something without waking. He turns into the touch, though, and that's enough for Derek to feel all right picking him up. He wakes enough at that to ask, "Wha?"

Derek says, "Taking you home."

"K," Stiles agrees easily, smacking his lips and letting his head fall against Derek's chest. Derek kisses the top of his head and manfully doesn't laugh.

*

Stiles sleeps for most of the ride, barring watering and bathroom breaks, but he wakes once they're driving into town. He looks over at Derek, who undoubtedly has heard the shift in his breathing, but who's keeping his eyes on the road, tapping his fingers on the wheel to the music playing quietly. Stiles says, "Hey."

"Morning," Derek responds, dry and fond. 

Stiles snorts. It's dark out, and while it's winter, that still means it's a hell of a lot closer to night time than morning. "Thanks for driving."

"I felt it was in both of our best interests."

"Dick," Stiles says.

"How're you feeling?" Derek asks.

"Gross. I can't even imagine how you can be in a car with me."

"You play intramural lacrosse. And aren't the world's snappiest at laundry. I've had it worse."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You love it."

Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles reaches out to rub at the back of his neck. "Sorry I scared you."

"You should be," Derek grumbles. 

Stiles can't help a smile at the throwback to Derek when they'd first met, surly and terrible at communication. In fairness, Derek is still like that a lot, just not with Stiles. As much because he needs to say it as because Derek needs to hear it, Stiles says, "Love you."

Derek takes one hand off the wheel and squeezes Stiles's thigh. "More."

Normally, Stiles will argue. For the moment, though, he's tired, and they've both had a rough couple of days. He lets Derek win.

*

His dad's car is in the driveway when they arrive, despite the fact that he's usually not off shift until around eight and it's only a little after seven. Stiles figures Derek called ahead. Stiles goes to grab the bag that Derek packed for him, but Derek is in full Me Wolf, You Human mode and is having none of that.

Stiles goes ahead and unlocks the front door, calling, "Dad?"

It smells like Melissa's chicken tortilla soup in the house, and Stiles' stomach rumbles. His father comes around the corner and wraps him up in a hug. "Hey there, Sicky McSickerson."

"The dangers of a higher education." Stiles clings to his dad, the way he always does when they visit. It's not even as if they're not back every few weeks. But he's never really gotten used to being unable to check in physically with his father, make sure everything is okay.

His dad doesn't let go, either, but he does raise his head and say, "Hey, Derek, thanks for keeping this little miscreant alive."

Stiles doesn't have to look to know that Derek is standing awkwardly just inside the door, like they haven't been together for over three years, like he doesn't have every bit as much right to call this place home as Stiles does. He calls, "C'mere."

Derek listens. When it comes to the important things, Derek always listens. Stiles and his dad open their arms in concert, drawing Derek into the hug. Derek manages to hold onto the tension in his stance for about ten seconds before giving in and molding himself to them.

Dad says, "Welcome home, boys."

**Author's Note:**

> Had such a fun time writing this, thanks for the prompt, goss, I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
